


Only the First Morning

by chervilspotatoes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying John, Crying Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Kissing, happy crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chervilspotatoes/pseuds/chervilspotatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up with Sherlock for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the First Morning

The first thing that registers is a weight on my chest. I float gently to wakefulness and am treated with the realization that it is Sherlock on my chest. I’ve never seen him sleep before, except once when he was sick. He didn’t look peaceful then, his brow was furrowed and curls were sticking to the back of his neck. His mouth was pinched and unhappy. I want to see his face, see if he’s awake or not. Either possibility excites me.

 

I open my eyes and see a tumble of dark curls, looking like an endless waterfall cascading from his head, his beautiful head. He’s so brilliant, so far above me and anyone else I’ve ever known. Even Mycroft and Jim Moriarty couldn’t compare to Sherlock. If only I could see his mind, step inside it and explore his wonderful palace. I think he would let me. And it’s that trust and love I never ever want to abuse. I raise my left hand to his head and brush soft hair from his eyes, which I now see are closed.

 

I am taken aback at the sight of his relaxed face. His muscles are slack and his eyes slightly crinkled in the corners. What I can see of his mouth is tilted into a pleased, soft expression with his lips just parted. His torso and head are on my chest, but his stomach presses into my hip and his legs stretch along my left side. His left arm is under my shoulder, and I only realize now that my right hand is on his shoulderblade.

 

I could lay here forever with Sherlock, so happy he’s here and he loves me. It’s only our first morning waking up in bed together, but I’m pretty sure there will be thousands to come. I never plan on leaving him, and I appear to have stolen his heart. Sherlocks mate for life, I am told. And it is my job to prolong his life and make him happy, ecstatic, full of joy. He deserves it, and he hasn’t had very much of it. Part of that is my fault, so it is imperative I make it up to him.

 

I see his face twitch, so close to mine I can pick up the minimal changes in his muscle tenseness as he wakes. I watch his lips part more, then close. Then I see him struggle to open his eyelids, like they weigh more than he can carry. I expect him to recover quickly and look at me with his knowing gaze and see the fierce intelligence blaze behind his eyes. Instead, he looks down at my chest and smiles. Then he slowly runs his eyes up to mine, raising his head slightly. A freshly awakened Sherlock looks tender and vulnerable, like a turtle with no shell or a bird that just hatched and is still covered in goo. Or perhaps one that looks at its mother and levels her an all trusting gaze for their welfare, since Sherlock still looks pristine sleep rumpled. That’s it. Sherlock looks so trusting and open now. I raise my left hand to his head and he leans toward my touch, helping his hair sift between my fingers. His eyes go half lidded and he’s so obviously pleased with my affection it breaks my heart. 

 

I can feel his head beneath my fingers and his heart beating against my ribs and his hand under my shoulder and his spine under my wrist and all of a sudden it’s too much. This is Sherlock. Sherlock is here, in bed with me, because he loves me more, better, far exceeding what I ever thought, expected, or deserved. Sherlock forgives me and wants me and is letting me see him when he’s vulnerable, letting me touch him, letting me know him. My lip trembles and tears stream down my cheeks. His eyes open and he reaches for my face, asking what’s wrong. At his distress I produce more tears.

 

I tell him how overwhelming it is to know that he loves me, that he’s here with me, and that no please Sherlock don’t cry too I don’t want you to cry. A tear drips down from his blue eyes and I lean up to kiss it away. At the touch of my lips on his cheek he lets out a strangled sob and starts audibly crying. His breath catches every once in a while and I feel continued tracks on my own cheeks he tries to wipe away while I kiss his away. He moves and catches my lips, our faces smearing wetly together. He kisses me like it’s all he ever wants from life, and I kiss him back with the same intensity.

 

Eventually there are no more tears and our faces are starting to stick together and get tacky. I pull off his plumped lips and hurriedly wipe my face with a corner of sheet. Reading my mind, like always, he wipes his face too. He scoops my shoulder up and pulls and drags me along with him in a half turn. I find myself settled between his thighs, with our chests pressed together. He curls his legs so his calves are on mine and I am pressed to him from collarbone to toes. His hands meander my shoulders while I can’t stop touching his face. The line of his jaw, the soft redness of his lips. I trace his cheekbones and his closed eyelids, thinking of his trust in me, to willingly pin and immobilize himself beneath me and let me touch his eyes and face. I draw hands into his hair and he doesn’t move, so I kiss him again, tasting banquets and excitement and love and trust and eternity in his mouth as we kiss the day away. I am home, surrounded by Sherlock, sharing our love and all of ourselves together.


End file.
